Bright Eyes
by The Knife In Your Side
Summary: The world is made of many things; there are good things, and bad things. Those little things that seemed to flitter somewhere in-between, but then there are the strange things - the lost things. The people who ticked out of time with the rest like broken clockwork. Those people with bright eyes and bright smiles, oh how often it was that they had the most malfunctioning cogs.
1. Prologue

**FIRST SHOT AT WRITING DESTIEL, BE KIND FELLOW HUMANOIDS.**

**CONSTRUCTIVE CRITISISIM IS GREATLY WELCOMED.**

**TWT plot. Warnings will be provided at the start of each chapter.**

**Re-uploaded from other account.**

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_"I never heard the word 'escape',_

_Without a quicker blood,_

_A sudden expectation,_

_A flying attitude._

_I never heard of prisons broad,_

_By soldiers battered down,_

_But I tug childish at my bars,_

_Only to fail again!"_

_–Emily Dickinson_

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_Prologue:_

The heart, being that of fifth dimensional existence, was in a constant state of flux, a forever changing and forever growing unrest of instability. It changed and aged with both love and sadness. It can be twisted and gnarled and shrivelled like a prune, and yet still it will guide.

Dean could feel his heart then in that moment, fluttering like a humming bird in his chest as the boy stared through the window of the run-down corner store. The night was dark, grey clouds collecting in the sky and the teenaged boy's stomach growled. He could see the direct route, right there on the rack were loafs of bread.

Throwing up his dark hoodie, Dean pushed open the door, hearing a bell ring. The teenager walked calmly and straight towards the fridges along the back wall, making sure to keep his head down. Instinctively, his hands reached for the cheap small generic bottles, but then realised that it didn't matter, and instead pulled a two litre bottle of full cream from the shelf.

Eyeing the bored looking man who bore great resemblance to an over-fed bulldog behind the counter, Dean walked through the isles, making a show of looking like he was browsing, before he came close to the bread stand. Lifting off two loafs of wholemeal bred, he began sweating, eyeing the door three meters away.

"You done, mate?" the bull-dog guy asked, but Dean didn't answer as he made a break for the door, "Ah, bollocks!" the cashier cursed, quickly beginning to dial 911.

Dean, on the other hand, was running for his life down the ill-lit street, blood ringing in his ears.

_This is so wrong, so very wrong,_ he thought to himself in disgust, but quickly banished the idea in light of other fare more pressing matters.

Every sound was an on-coming siren and every light was blue and red as he turned down corner after corner, through winding alley ways and back gardens in fear of capture. Eventually the boy slowed, panting like a Labrador and examining his loot; the bread was slightly squished from being quickly shoved under his arms and the milk carton had a dent, but otherwise, they remained unscathed from the run.

Thanking his lucky stars, Dean saw the flickering neon sign of _Redge's Cozy Motel_ up ahead but it wasn't until he had dug the keys out of his pocket, walked through the door, and locked it all up again, that Dean Winchester felt safe.

The room was small, a kitchenette consisting of a mini-fridge, microwave (which neither Sam or I trusted to use), kettle, gas stove and oven left basically no room for a bench or cupboard space. There was also a small round table surrounded by four chairs, and two doors led in different directions – one to the bedroom consisting of a double bed and the other a small bathroom. The yellow tiles were then cut off then and replaced by a piss-stained patterned carpet where a leather couch and black and white television sat.

Dean looked over and saw his kid brother, Sam, sitting cross laggard in front of the television with a book cradled in his lap.

"Hey, Sammy," the elder brother greeted and Sam turned around, slight smile on his face. It always pained Dean to see how skinny he was, "We still have that peanut butter?"

"Don't call me Sammy!" he whined, bookmarking his spot in the book and standing up to help Dean, "And I don't think we have any peanut butter. Used up the rest last night, remember?"

Sam knelt down and opened the near-empty fridge, "We have margarine,"

"Bring it out," Dean ordered as he dropped the two loafs onto the table, "And put this in the fridge," he passed Sam the milk.

He stared curiously at his elder brother, "Where'd you get this?"

"A friend from work," Dean lied blatantly, feeling a pang of guilt in his gut.

But that seemed enough of an excuse for Sam as the two brothers eyed the food savagely. Dean counted pieces and laid one and a half pieces on their plates. The margarine container was basically full (Dean having taken it from work just the other day) and he didn't bother rationing it.

"There should be enough until next week, and then I'll get paid and we can eat proper, yeah?" Dean ruffled Sam's hair and he smiled, beginning to eat.

"What about dad?" Sam spoke with his mouth full, cocking his head towards the couch were there father – John Winchester – lay asleep, snoring faintly, empty bottle held weakly in his grasp.

Dean shrugged, "He's asleep. We wait 'till morning and then he can eat."

Sam nodded as he finished his almost-sandwich. Dead felt sick in his gut, knowing his brother was still hungry. Ripping of a piece he threw it at Sam's face.

"Seriously?"

"I ate at work," he lied again and Sammy thanked him. Dean had been lying a lot lately, and it scared him how much easier it became with each one.

They were quiet for a moment when Sam whispered, "Don't let what happened last time happen again, Dean,"

"What do you mean?" the elder brother asked, avoiding Sammy's eyes.

Sam frowned, almost disappointed with Dean's denial, "You know what I mean. You go out and earn that money at Bobby's yard, and _he_ just spends it on alcohol and cigarettes. It ain't fair. Don't let him have it. I've seen you sit out and plan exactly how the money's going to be spent for the month, and dad flushes it down the toilet. I mean c'mon – we're literally living on bread and butter!"

"We aren't talking about this now, okay? It's almost midnight. I have work tomorrow and I'm tired," Dean dismissed him and Sam left.

"You always have work," Dean heard Sammy murmur sadly under his breath, "And you're always tired," before heading into the bedroom.

With a sigh, Dean stood up and stretched. He hadn't felt sixteen in a while, Dean was closer to thirty than any else. He'd worked every day this summer so they could keep on living in this run-down motel. He didn't even want to think about what it'd be like when school started in two weeks, Dean was pretty certain that he'd not be going anyway. He had the yard.

And he knew it wasn't fair. And he knew it was hard. And he _knew_ it was downright bullshit.

But Dean was doing the best he could with what he had – and believe me, what he had, was very little.

Walking into the bathroom, he stripped down and threw his dirtied work clothes in the corner. Checking in the cupboard he realised there were no clean boxers, or other clothes for that matter.

With a sigh, he muttered to himself, "Maybe I can scrounge up some change for the coin laundry at work tomorrow…"

He stood under the water for a long while, constantly needing to alter the temperature as it had a tendency to slip. It was past the point where Dean attempted scrubbing the grease and smell of oil from his skin, and there was barely a cake of soap left to waste on someone who just get all dirty again. And in all truth, no matter how hard you scrub, you cannot scrub away your identity. Somewhere deep down I think dean knew this.

The teenager stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist and rubbing his five o'clock shadow while he stared in the mirror. There were bags under his green eyes and stress lines on his forehead. His skin was tired and weathered from work in the sun. I guess if he didn't feel sixteen, he didn't have the right to look it either.

Picking up the boxers he'd warn that day and putting them back on, he pondered the point for that shower.

Walking back into the main room, Dean walked towards his father; putting a pillow under his head and taking the bottle from his weak grip, he whispered a goodnight and turned off the television, letting he room go dark.

Shuffling towards the bedroom, he made sure not to wake Sammy as he crawled into the bed they shared and fell into the deep, dreamless sleep of somebody who didn't really have much of a good reason to wake up.

* * *

Dean felt himself being shaken awake and his eyes cracked open, seeing Sam kneeling over him with bed hair and a worried look on his face. No morning light shone from behind the curtains as Dean rolled over to see the clock said it was around two in the morning.

"W-what you wake me for?" he asked, slightly irritated.

Sam looked to the doorway of the bedroom where two police officers stood. This woke him up and he stood out of bed, finding a t-shirt to wear.

"What did you do?" Sam questioned in a whisper, but Dean ignored him, extending his hand towards the officers.

"Are you Mr Dean Winchester?" The older, grey haired officer asked, "I'm Officer Jones and this is my partner, Officer May,"

He nodded, trying to remain calm, "Y-yes that's me,"

"Where were you at ten o'clock tonight?" he continued to question.

"I was here with Sammy and dad eating dinner," he answered passively.

They looked around the small room with that look all adults wore when they saw the conditions of which he and his family lived, "And where is your father now?"

"He's, uhh, on the couch. Wasn't feeling very well," the little brother spoke up as they lead the officers back into the cramped main room. Sam proceeded to shake John awake; it took a few minutes as Dean shifted uncomfortably while Jones and May exchanged nervous glances.

When he woke, he woke with a start, "Who's that?" he growled.

Sammy frowned, kneeling over him, "It's me dad,"

"Oh, hey Sammy, what you doin' wakin' me up?" John reached his hand out to feel his shoulder, "Where's Dean?"

Dean choked out, "Over here, dad,"

"Sorry, couldn't see you," he laughed a horse laugh. It didn't catch on so he stopped, "What's wrong?"

One of the officers coughed, "Are you okay, sir?"

"What? Who's there?" he felt his hands through the air and stood.

"I'm Officer May, this is my partner Officer Jones," the woman introduced herself and John scowled.

"What the bloody hell is goin' on? You do somethin' boy?" he pointed an accusing finger in the direction of Dean, who wasn't exactly sure what to do.

"Mr Winchester are you drunk?" May asked.

"No," he answered meekly as Sam sighed, "Definitely,"

She pursed her lips, obviously figuring out what was going on here. You see, John Winchester, was not just blind in the psychological sense, but in the physical sense also. His sight long lost around eleven months ago, one month after the loss of the boy's mother in a house fire.

But Officer May continued to question as John stood up, feeling his was towards to kitchen and taping his hands through the empty fridge looking for food. There wasn't any and Dean flinched at the sight, "Tonight around 10 o'clock somebody shoplifted the corner store a few blocks away. He looked an awful lot like your son. So where were you at that time?"

"He what? Look, my son ain't done nothin', alright? He's a good lad," John growled, sitting down at the table.

"So it wouldn't hurt to help with the investigation, then, would it?" Jones quipped, obviously getting tired of him circling the question.

"Well I'm pretty sure I conked out around nine, so I dunno. What you reckon Sammy?"

Dean internally groaned as his little brother answered, "Yeah, probably, it'd be something like that,"

Jones turned back to Dean, "You said that you were all eating at ten,"

"I meant just Sammy and I," he attempted digging himself out of the hole.

Sam seemed to realise what was happening and sent a shaky look to his brother and then to the two loafs sitting on the table.

"We're going to give you one last chance; where were you at ten this night?" May sent him a stern yet kind look.

He opened his mouth to lie again, but closed it, realising denial wasn't an option, he sighed, "I-I… t-the… corner store…"

The officers looked leased with themselves but the faintest hint of sadness, which the elder boy found fine. He could deal with that. But when he looked into Sam's glassy disappointed eyes he almost couldn't bare it, eyes questioning 'why' and yet at the same time understanding so completely in a way a twelve-year-old boy shouldn't. It broke Dean's heart.

"You what?! You telling me you fuckin' shoplifted? What's you steal, packet of rubbers?" John yelled, looking furious as he stumbled forward.

Dean scowled, "Of course not! It was bread and milk so we could freakin' eat you bastard!"

"That ain't no excuse. Stealin' ain't the Winchester way," he smacked his hand down on the table top with a sharp crack.

"So what? The Winchester way is _starving_ to death?" Dean retorted with acid.

And then John lunged forward toward the heated voiced of his son, and Dean stood his ground, but Jones stood between them, holding John as he screamed a string of profanities at his eldest son.

"Hey, break it up!" Jones yelled over the top of them, and John quietened down. The Officer then turned to May, "Get Social Services on the phone, please,"

She nodded with a weary glance in Sammy's direction and left the room.

"Oi, what you talkin' about 'Social Services'. We don't need no social service!" John barked at him, glassy grey eyes filled with rage as he fought against Jones's hold.

Jones reacted calmly, "Sir, please calm down."

"No, I ain't calmin' down. You're going to take me boys!"

Sam looked as if he was panicking as Dean put his hands on his shoulders in reassurance, looking meaningfully at his brother.

"Boy's? Boy's please… Dean… Sam… please,"

Officer Jones didn't answer and instead looked to Dean, who nodded only slightly, gripping his little brother tighter.

"They're gone," he spoke slowly and cautiously. Their father stared into space, mulling over the thought for a few moments before he broke down, weeping into his hands as they watched.

Sammy turned away and whispered to Dean, "I can't watch this, I-I can't…"

And Dean was thankful he said so, because he couldn't handle it either. So they crept out and sat outside as people arrived – different people of different uniforms with different titles and reason for their being there at that stingy motel at midnight. And the boys let themselves be taken them, whisked away… because Dean didn't know how they'd have survived 'till tomorrow if those Officers hadn't knocked on the door.

Sam tucked himself under Dean's arm as the elder brother reassured him, watching his little brother cry silently into his chest.

But even still, even then, Dean didn't cry – he didn't need to.

No, he was already too broken for that.

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**SORRY I GET THAT THAT'S NOT HOW SOCIAL SERVICE AND POLICE ACTUALLY WORK BUT WHATEVER I COULDN'T BE FUCKED DOING THE REASURCH.**

**And also, just to clarify, USA's help line is 911 right, because is Australia it's 000 (which I find to be much simpler no offense) and I get confused sometimes…**

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Again I skipped out of the research for this one *sheepish smile* so tell me if I've gotten anything majorly wrong, and if it doesn't affect the plot I'll change it.**

**HAS BEEN ENTIRELY RE-WRITEN**

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_"I'm nobody! Who are you?_

_Are you nobody, too?_

_Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!_

_They'd banish us, you know._

_How dreary to be somebody!_

_How public, like a frog,_

_To tell your name the livelong day,_

_To an admiring bog."_

_–Emily Dickinson_

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_Chapter One:_

_A couple weeks later..._

To the outsider Castiel Novak was so very unusual; strange and different, quiet and withdrawn – built out of all those little quirked qualities that made you virtually invisible to all else. He rarely ever smiled unless there was a considerably good reason to do so, with his big blue eyes that always seemed to be so curious, and yet so entirely sad.

And on the slight chance you knew him – as very few did – he would seem quite plain, and boring, and dull – so very content to sit alone in his cupboard under the stairs with a classic novel and a mug of caffeine for hours on end.

Most people didn't disturb him under there; the other boy's at the home didn't care enough for such antics. Even the caretakers understood that Castiel had claimed that cupboard for himself; they knew he stole the key a long while ago, but they let it slide. Maybe they felt sorry for him, maybe it's because they knew he would probably slit the throat of any who entered his sanctuary. Who knew.

Suddenly the scrawny boy heard voices, and kneeled to peek through the cracks of the ventilation gap in the door.

First there was a smaller, yet exceptionally tall boy, maybe eleven or twelve in age, and extremely thin with skin that hung off his bones. He had messy dark brown hair that fell into his hazel eyes which looked red and puffy as if he'd been crying recently.

Castiel felt a pang of empathy for the boy. Everybody here knew what loss felt like, but as most got over that raw initial pain with time, you could still see the wound fresh and raw in his eyes.

Behind him stood an elder boy – most likely his brother – with short blond hair, dark green eyes and a grimace plastered across his face. His skin was weather warn with tired bags hanging under his eyes suggesting lack of sleep. He was built strong like an ox but seemed underfed and thin. His hand sat rested on the smaller boys shoulder, a gesture of reassurance.

The elder knelt down a whispered something in his ear and the smaller boy chocked out a sad laugh; the kind that no matter how much grief you held, you still couldn't help but burst involuntarily.

Ellen, the head caretaker at the Boy's Home came down the stairs above Castiel's head and greeted the brothers as Castiel continued watching, hidden within his cupboard. Unable to hear entirely what was being said he didn't have good grasp on the conversation, but was well aware of the disjointed looks the brothers were sending each other.

He continued watching, as Ellen led the boys down the hall and past his door. Or so he thought. With three knocks that made him jump, Ellen smiled slyly, "Cassie, would you mind showing Dean and Sam around," she knelt down to the cupboard door, peeking through.

The scrawny boy scowled, peeping through the flap on the door with icy blue eyes, "I guess,"

The brothers looked down with shock as a skinny teenager with a mess of black hair that stuck up at strange angles and a tan trench coat emerged from the cupboard, looking ruffled and slightly struck.

"I'll take you're bag to your room," Ellen smiled, grasping the handle, "But only this once, I'm not your housekeeper, or your mother,"

Dean looked like he was about to interject but the younger boy seemed to silence him; looking nervous as Ellen walked away with the single case. There was just the one, as well as a small rucksack slung over the elder brothers shoulder but it didn't seem as if he'd be letting go of that any time soon.

The other boy extended a hand to which Castiel stared at for a split second before he remembered he had to shake it, "As she said, I'm Dean Winchester," he introduced himself, " and this is my kid brother Sammy,"

Sammy scrunched up his nose at the mention of the nickname, "It's Sam. Don't listen to him."

"Dually noted. I am Castiel…" he spoke without much emotion, and gestured to the hallway, "This is ground level, obviously. Next level is for the children under ten, then after that's the elder boys – our level,"

"Cool," Sam managed to smile up at Castiel which reassured him slightly.

They began following the quiet boy down the narrow hallway with peeling tacky orange and green flower wallpaper. It felt bare; there were no photos or decorations – only dry squeaky floorboards and a sense of emptiness that hung in the air.

"Through here is the Mess Hall," Castiel pushed open a set of double doors into another bare room that resembles a sort of ram-shackled cafeteria with different mismatching tables and chairs filling the space. Few kids sat inside, but they didn't turn around. They didn't particularly care; new kids were not unusual or uncommon. The arrival of Sam and Dean was no great shock to anybody's senses, so much so that others almost forgot that they'd just experienced great loss. Cynical, to say the least.

"Breakfast is six 'till seven and dinners at eight o'clock sharp. Lunch's from noon 'till one on weekends and for school days you pick it up after breakfast and before the bus comes. I recommend getting on Betty the cook's good side or she'll spit in your food,"

The brothers nodded in understanding and they continued through the maze of corridors.

"Through those doors there are the offices of the caretakers and the head of the boy's home. Sickbay too. There's also a shrink that comes once or twice a week and a range of others things. It's basically off limits unless we have permission or good reason to be there,"

Castiel didn't look back to see if they understood before continuing to lead them around. He was severely uncomfortable, and although Ellen probably had good intentions, the two boys staring blankly at him and wherever he directed their attention didn't exactly help with his crippling social anxiety.

"At the end of this hallway is the nursery, which we aren't meant to go either unless it's to visit siblings or have chores duty or something along those lines," he explained.

Sam spoke up without thought, "Do you have any siblings?"

Dean flicked him over the ear at his insensitivity with a warning look.

But Castiel answered all the same, looking down (well, not really, Sam was a sasquatch) at the curious kid with sad eyes, "I… I did. I had an elder brother named Balthazar, and a sister called Anna… it's been a while now though…" he trailed off, mumbling to his converse.

"I'm sorry," Dean spoke with a tone of sympathy.

The scrawny boy laughed bitterly, "Oh, isn't everybody? If you don't mind me asking… who'd you lose? We've all lost somebody here…"

"W-well our mum died a year ago… but, um, Dad's in… uh… rehab..." Dean scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding the smaller boys gaze.

Sam snorted bitterly, "Passed out with a bottle in his hand, more like,"

"Oh," was all he said, suddenly seeing how skinny and worn they looked, much clearer than before.

Castiel had always considered that these sorts of cases sadder than ones such as his. At least he knew his parents wanted him and they'd cared for him and yeah, they died he'd come, but at least he'd always know with certain clarity that they loved him.

These kids… their dad was still out there. And although he knew nothing of the situation Sam and Dean faced, he could see on their faces that they did not possess such a clear certainty.

In silence they continued the tour, but the questions had ceased and both parties didn't look as if they'd be wanting to give out any more answers anyway.

"Study Hall is through there," Cas pointed to the smaller door, seeming much smaller and quieter than before, "Basic Math and English tutors come every Tuesday and Thursday but if you want help for other subjects I suggest taking it up with your teacher,"

Castiel didn't show them that room, knowing there were a bunch of kids studying for their exams and they wouldn't enjoy the interruption.

On the other side of the hallway Cas pointed to the door, "This is the Rec Room. You're only meant to go in there after you've finished homework, but no one really follows that rule," he paused to think of any more places to show, "Bathrooms are upstairs, sometimes we run out of hot water, but it's not that often. You can't go out after dinner on school nights, but otherwise you gotta be back by ten. Don't forget to sign in and out or the caretakers will have your hide… other than that you'll get assigned chores and weekly pocket money of $7,"

The two boys grinned at the prospect.

"Now you're probably sick of my voice –_ I_ am sick of my voice – so let's go to your room. I think I know which it is – I saw it being cleaned earlier," Castiel mustered and directed them back to the main staircase.

Sure enough, he was right about the room. It was the last on the row and beside Castiel and Gabe's. When they walked in the three boys found their old suitcase on the floor and a set of sheets laying on each bed against the wall with to two sets of keys beside – one for each brother. There was also a split chest of draws and two dented metal lockers, but otherwise, it was entirely blank with whitewashed walls and dry floorboards.

It seemed strange, Castiel had been living here for a while and he and Gabe had made their room… well, theirs. From Gabe's raunchy poster of a girl in a bikini (that Cassie disagreed with quite intensely) to all of the books stashed under Castiel's bed and a combined collection of rare cans they'd collected… it felt like home. Or at least as close to home as possible.

The brothers immediately got to unpacking while Castiel stood awkwardly in the doorway unsure of what to do.

"Do you… do you need any help?" he asked uncomfortably, not exactly wishing to spend any more time in their company (with no offence to the brothers, that was just how he was), but understanding that was the socially acceptable thing to do.

"We're fine," Dean spoke plainly as Sam said, "Yes, thanks,"

The elder brother shot at look at the kid Sasquatch but said nothing, as Castiel entered the room slowly. Sam was unfolding his sheets and Castiel took one end, stretching it over and tucking it under the mattress. Throwing on the thick woollen blanket and thin pillow, they were done.

Unthinking, Castiel immediately started unfolding the untouched sheets of Dean's bed as the boy sat on the floor, sorting through the suitcase and figuring out what was his and what was Sam's.

"Don't worry about it. I can do it myself." He said stiffly as an unsure Castiel stood there holding them.

Sam, on the other hand, rolled his eyes, "Dean, don't be such a prick,"

"Fine, whatever, do what you want," he sighed, "You know where I can get some water?"

Castiel stared at him blankly for a moment before remembering that he was being spoken too, "Uh, yes… yes there's a sink in the Mess Hall… make sure to clean… the cup…" he finished awkwardly.

"Great," he said briskly before leaving.

The younger sibling shook his head, beginning to help Castiel with the other bed sheets, "I'm sorry about him. He doesn't like accepting help,"

"They're bed sheets," Castiel deadpanned.

Sam laughed, probably the first proper laugh he'd heard off the boy since their meeting, "He's very anal about it,"

"I see that," he chuckled, "How old are you anyway?"

"Twelve, nearly thirteen," Sam smiled proudly.

Castiel raised an eyebrow, "You seem older,"

"I'm tall," Sammy sighed.

But that wasn't it at all. Yes, he was quite tall for his age, but that wasn't what made Sammy seem older – it was the darting eyes, and the stress lines, the fading bruise he could see on his jaw, and the quick quips of speech as if he was living on the edge of a cliff, await the moment when everything would come crashing down.

It was sad to see a kid that'd grown up so fast.

Still, Castiel couldn't talk. People told him he was born an elderly man and grew more irritable with each year.

Eventually they finished and there was nothing more Castiel could help with. Dean hadn't yet returned (they half suspected he'd gotten lost) but still, the blue-eyed boy said goodbye to Sam and left, returning to his own room.

As he pushed the door open he felt a tiny breeze beside his ear, '"Watch it with your darts, Gabriel," he mumbled with a scowl, plucking it out of the wall.

"You should've knocked, and what'd I say about calling me Gabriel? It's Gabe, dude. Not all people are okay with their weird-ass names, _Castiel_," he joked, sitting up from their bed and walking over to pluck the darts off the board that was on the back of their door, "What took you so long, anyway?"

He shrugged nonchalant, sitting on the edge of his bed, "Nothing. I showed the new brothers around and helped them unpack, then I left and now I'm here."

Gabe groaned, rolling his eyes, "You didn't even get that big guy's phone number?"

"No. And his name is Dean," Castiel corrected in a mere whisper, but immediately regretted it, internally kicking himself as Gabe broke into a Cheshire grin.

The elder boy wiggled his eyebrows, "Oh, first name basis, is it? You'll be in each other's pants by nex–"

Suddenly a classic novel came flying through the air and Gabe squealed, ducking just barely out of range. Castiel smirked to himself.

"Touchy," He jumped up again, "Better luck next time, sweetie. You know for somebody who treasures books above all else, you're pretty hard with them. I'd hate to be your lover,"

Another book flew.

"You're very mean for a socially inept introvert. You shouldn't be this mean, and it sucks, because people don't believe it when I say you're mean because you don't talk," Gabe pouted, sulking while holding his pillow up for protection.

Sighing, the messy haired boy looked across at Gabe who's perpetual grin still managed to be spread right across his face, "Well I shouldn't have gotten a dickhead for a roommate, but don't always get what we want. And I'm not gay, how many times must I repeat that?"

Gabriel laughed, yet asked in all seriousness, "When have you ever paid any attention to a girl?"

"When have I ever paid attention to a guy?" Castiel retorted with a challenging stare.

"Touché," the elder boy peered at his roommate, "But still…"

"_We_ are not talking about this," Castiel snapped, "End of conversation, end of discussion."

"Defensive," the other boy tutted, looking smug that he managed to anger to forever passive and indifferent Cassie.

"_Gabriel!_"

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**Wow hope that was okay.**

**PLEASE REVIEW.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all those who noticed I switched accounts. I'm sorry about that, but I had to do it sadly.**

**Also an Emily Dickinson poem should probably feature at the top of each chapter (I've gone back and edited the last two adding it in) in honour on my new book full of her poems that finally came in the mail ^_^**

**I have a great love of classic American poetry and poets as you'll probably grow to notice, so yeah they may feature a lot in this fic.**

* * *

"_This is my letter to the world,_

_That never wrote to me,_

_The simple news that nature told,_

_With tender majesty._

_Her message is committed,_

_To hands I cannot see;_

_For love of her, sweet countryman,_

_Judge tenderly of me!"_

–_Emily Dickinson_

* * *

_Chapter Two:_

Dean was not ready to face the day as his alarm blared beside his ear, shocking sudden alertness into his system. Across the small and plain box-like room his brother failed to stir, and so with a sigh Dean stood, shuffling to his bed.

He flicks Sammy in the ear, "C'mon bro, school time," he moaned and tried to pull the covers over his head – a sign of consciousness – and Dean smirked, "Up and at 'em, Sammy,"

"Ugh fine," he sat up in a mess of covers, hair sticking up at strange angles. Why the boy refused to cut it still 'till this day muddles Dean. It was already sitting at his shoulders, how much longer could the kid want it?

Pulling on a battered pair of jeans, an ACDC shirt and his well-worn leather jacket, Dean headed downstairs leaving his little bro so sort himself out. If he wasn't down within the next few minutes, then Dean would send the search party.

Following a few other boys that had also risen from their beds through the maze of corridors, Dean entered the dining room.

It was loud – what else could be expected of a group of boys this large? – But the sound mainly came from the littler kids, whilst the teenagers stared with dead eyes into their breakfast, contemplating different ways to fain sickness.

Sticking with two pieces of jam toast and a banana, Dean found an empty table off to the side of the crowd. Checking his watch he ate quietly, blocking out what he'd have to face when he arrived at school. His friends mainly, however few, hadn't heard from him in weeks. He guessed there was a chance that Jo knew, given she was Ellen's daughter, but still Dean had refused to turn on his phone for sake on the million messages that's hit him.

And fuck, then there was Abby Talbot. A one night stand he probably shouldn't have had. It wasn't that she would cling to him or try to make a drunken encounter more than it was, she probably hadn't even texted him. She probably didn't care about Dean at all – actually, scratch that – she _definitely _didn't care. It was more of a shame he felt within himself, shagging a random sociopathic chick at three in the morning at a party he didn't even want to be at in the first place.

_She even told me her name was Bela for fucks sake! _Dean thought to himself.

Not his finest of moments, he could admit with a cringe. Not to say it wasn't good, but that's just it – it was good. Simple. Easy. No strings attached.

Sometimes Dean really wanted there to be some strings.

Lost in thought he didn't notice Sam sit down before him.

Smirking, the elder brother knowingly asked, "What time did you read to?"

"I dunno, I read 'The Catcher in the Rye' again back to back… so maybe around three? Four?" Sam sighed, "I couldn't sleep, it's all so weird…"

Dean smiled reasuringly, "It'll get better," he said, unsure himself of his words.

But it seemed to appease Sam, who smiled warmly, "You're a good brother sometimes, you know that?"

Dean chuckled, holding is hands out before him, "Hey, no chick-flick moments. Bitch."

"Jerk," the younger laughed with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

The ate in silence after that, mainly because Sam looked like he was going to die right there and then, and Dean found his eyes surveying the room.

There was enough room for everybody, but still may kids sat squished onto the same tables, crowded around that one guy who had the answers to the homework due first thing or the kid who's poaning in Mario Cart. People made no effort to hide who they were. People couldn't be bothered – this was home to so many.

You could see who was high, who was crashing. You could see who was going somewhere, and who wasn't. You could see who had friends, and who was alone…

No wonder places like these are stressful. They're just like school.

And then he caught sight of Castiel, sitting alone mindlessly feeding himself with one hand while holding a thick hardcover book in the other, eyes scanning the page at a rapid rate.

Dean smiled to himself slightly; Cas was cute in a scrawny and awkward way with his trenchcoat and bed-hair that stuck up at odd angles and brilliantly blue eyes.

Chuckling with a small shake of his head the elder boy looked away. Dean didn't really have a sexuality as such, or at least he didn't identify specifically as anything. He just accepted that some people were cute and others weren't and left it at that. It wasn't particularly hard to figure out.

Still, he kept such opinions to himself. Despite popular opinion (held mainly by Jo and Sammy), he wasn't stupid.

Dean knew his dad would kill him.

Shaking away the thoughts, he stood up as Sam wiped up the last of the egg from his plate with the crust of the toast. Dean flung his rucksack over his shoulder with a short sigh and Sammy followed suit. Most of the others had begun clearing out the dining hall by then too, opting to continue their conversations standing outside while waiting for the buses so as not to miss it.

The first bus came along, usually sported by the middle schoolers and kids who wished to get to school early. Still, dean climbed on after Sammy and they sat together in comfortable silence. Neither overly excited for school, something usual for Dean and not so usual for Sammy.

Staring blankly out the window waiting for the driver to close the doors and leave, Dean saw one last kid climb on – Castiel, barely ever tearing his eyes away from the novel – which Dean realised to be '1984' by George Orwell from the closer angle and scowled, remembering studying it last year to his great displeasure – while clambering up the stairs with an apologetic smile towards the grumpy man behind the steering wheel.

He took his seat near the front, away from everybody else.

Slowly Dean managed to block out everybody around him and drift off into a day dream of nothing particularly important.

That was until Sam nudged him, shattering the illusion of solidarity.

"This is my stop," he sighed, standing.

"You'll be fine, Sammy," Dean grinned and messed his brothers shaggy hair.

The youngest Winchester attempted a scowl as he scrambled off the bus, but Dean could see the small smile as he walked towards the middle school. Feeling better knowing that Sam was doing better than yesterday, and the day before that, Dean felt a slight weight be lifted off his chest.

"Hello Dean," a raspy voice asked and the boy jumped, seeing Castiel casually leaning over the seat in front of Dean, ocean eyes so curious with his head slightly tilted to the side. And God, his eyes! Dean hadn't seen them this close before but it looked as if a million waves crashed within them – a million mixed emotions inside Castiel's head.

"What the hell, man!" he gasped, "You scared me, I didn't see you move,"

Castiel squinted his eyes slightly, "People do tell me I move quietly,"

Unsure on what to say Dean mumbled, "Y-you should put your seatbelt on,"

_Really? That's what you said? God, he's just cute it's not like he's some sort of amazing angel! Get your shit together, Winchester!_

"If this bus crashed I'd die either way. Seatbelt would decapitate me, or at least snap my neck and render me paralysed, which might as well be death," Castiel stated plainly, with sad eyes.

"How would you know?" Dean questioned, unsure whether Cas was being serious or not.

"I know," the blue-eyed boy blinked and turned around in his seat, burying his face back into '1984' once again.

They sank into silence and Dean resumed daydreaming, a certain pair of blue eyes burned into his mind.

* * *

Walking through the school gates Dean felt a heavy, like somebody had tied him down with stones and told him to climb a mountain. With a frown he approached his locker, breathing a sigh of relief that a certain blonde ball of fury wasn't there leaning against her locker located right beside his.

Dean racked his brains for his locker combination having not had to use is for so long, but eventually after a few tries and a smack to the metal door, it opened and he dumped his rucksack and the contents into the small space, collecting what he needed for Advanced Physics and Trigonometry. An overall good morning. He could work with numbers, he was good with them – you didn't need to analyse them for themes or underlying subtext. They simply were.

"_Winchester!_" a yell rang out through the hallway, causing few people to turn their heads.

_Shit._

Dean sighed, hitting his head against the door, "I thought too soon," he mumbled under his breath before turning to face a very pissed Jo.

She first hit him, slapping him across the arm "Mind answering my calls, you dick. You went completely off radar! I'd have thought you dead if mum hadn't told me what happened!"

"She called you?" Dean asked, slightly surprised, "How'd that go?"

Jo scowled, "Don't change the subject, Dean-o. It was awkward, weird and awkward. It's always is when she calls. You didn't answer any of my texts! Nothing! How'd it happen anyway?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable under her steel gaze, "I, uh, stole some bread and milk… cops showed up and dad… went nuts… and they called social services and now Sammy and I are at the Boy's Home…"

Jo's eyes turned soft, "I-I'm sorry, Dean… you could've come to the Roadhouse, dad and I could have…"

"You've done enough for me," Dean spoke stubbornly and Jo knew better than to fight it.

"You want a hug?" Jo offered, extending her arms and not waiting for his reply before wrapping her arms around him, full knowing how much he'd hate. He struggled against her grip and she laughed manically, people began to stare.

"Oh for fucks sake you to get a room," a different voice grunted, and Jo released Dean, both turning to Pam and Ash we stood there, books in hand.

Ash grinned, clapping his returned friend on the back, "Hey man, howzit been? Ain't seen you around lately. C'mon bro we gotta get to class,"

With a small smile Dean wandered off in the directions of the science labs, giving a quick wave to Pam and Jo.

"Have fun in Veggie Physics, you two," Dean called back.

"Oh fuck up, Winchester," Pam yelled back irritably.

He grinned cockily, "It'd be my pleasure, Pammy,"

She scowled as they disappeared and the bell rang through the corridor.

The day progressed as all days do, in a conventional sequence of one class to another. Dean collected the catch up work grudgingly, his friends lending notes where they could. He'd missed a week of school and yet it felt as if he was a month behind.

When lunch ended he and Jo collected their sketchbooks for a double Art. Dean sighed in slight relief, although he had absolutely no understanding of art, at least it was easy – or easier that lots of subjects – he internally corrected himself, knowing Jo would castrate him for think her favourite subject as an easy A.

"The teacher's pretty scattered, she generally spends most of the time smoking outside. We hand in a piece of art at the end of the week, and that's about it," Jo commented before we pushed the door to the Art Room open.

Like she said, the teacher wasn't there and majority of the class was just sitting crowded around each other chatting, many sitting on their phones. Few actually looked like they were doing art related activities, and ever fewer were taking it seriously. One guy he could see had covered himself with glitter and was getting a mate to take photos of it.

Dean half expected Jo to take control of the class or at least be pissed that nobody cared, but instead she just sat down at an empty table, opened her book and began inking away at her fanart comic strips head bobbing along to her music.

Awkwardly, Dean sat down, opting to watch her. Or well, until she told him to piss off. Which was after only three minutes.

"Go do something, I don't care if you glue your fingers together – just stop watching me. It's unnerving," she shooed him away with a small smile, and he looked to the room.

The teacher had popped her head in to check on them a few times so far. At least she put in some sort of effort.

Dean started at the range of art supplies on the trolley with a sigh, picking out a pencil he began attempting to draw the beautiful Impala he'd recently been fixing at Bobby's, but what he pictured in his mind wasn't what came out on the page. His lines wobbled and became crooked, the shading was never right. Hi couldn't draw the circular wheels, or keep the dimensions right. In the end it looked a mess or rubbings and scribble, and he kicked himself for trying, tearing out the page with a sigh and throwing it to the trash can across the room.

It narrowly missed, bouncing off the edge and Dean sighed again – it had not been his day.

And so sadly and quite shamefully, the teenager found himself doing his Math homework. Even though he enjoyed Math and was quite good at it, he didn't let it on. He couldn't be bothered dealing with the ridicule.

Still, he grew tired of that also.

Sitting and staring at the crumpled piece of paper in boredom, but watching it sit _right beside_ the bin was frustrating Dean and so he stood suddenly, making the group of gossiping girls near him jump slightly and exchange weird looks, murmuring things such as 'dickhead' and 'OCD much?'.

Dean ignored them, uncaring. The words of idiot's had little effect on him, and nor should they – they were idiots after all. Their brain function was impaired by shity pop music and the Twilight Novels.

As he dropped the ball of paper in the bin he spied something in the corner of his eyes – a pair of converse, tapping to a beat he couldn't hear. Looking closer he saw Castiel sitting in a small nook near the back corner of the room, hidden amongst the disorganised fabrics used by the textiles class.

For a reason unknown – maybe even simply boredom – Dean found a new spot to sit, a place where he could see the thin, shaggy-haired boy with the strange trenchcoat as he sketched away in complete concentration, humming to his music. So content with being unseen and alone.

A small smile came it rest on Deans lips as he watched the other boy draw, wishing he knew what he was creating with that pencil or humming to in his head. But alas Dean was too far away to hear or see, and too much or a coward to walk up and ask – so he simply watched.

And suddenly, still watching, Dean found himself not bored at all.

* * *

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